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was wearing when she married, let alone still have the dress? You have still got it?’

      About to shake her head, explain, Sylvie realised that it was probably just where she’d left it. After all, nothing else seemed to have been touched.

      But that was a step back to a different life. A different woman.

      ‘I’m supposed to be displaying your skills, Geena,’ she said. ‘Giving you a showcase for your talent. A vintage gown wouldn’t do that.’

      ‘You’re supposed to be giving the world your personal fantasy,’ Geena reminded her generously. ‘Although, unless it’s been stored properly, it’s likely to be moth-eaten and yellowed. Not quite what Celebrity are expecting for their feature. And, forgive me for mentioning this, but I don’t imagine your great-grandmother was—how do they put it?—in an “interesting condition” when she took that slow walk up the aisle.’

      ‘True.’ The dress had been stored with care and when she’d been nineteen it had been as close to perfect as it was possible for a dress to be. Life had moved on. She was a different woman now and, pulling a face, she said, ‘Rising thirty and pregnant, all that virginal lace would look singularly inappropriate.’

      ‘Actually, I’ve got something rather more grown-up in mind for you,’ she replied. ‘Something that will go with those shoes. But I’d really love to see your grandmother’s dress, if only out of professional interest.’

      ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      ‘Great. Now, hold still and I’ll run this tape over you and take some measurements so that we can start work on the toile.’

      CHAPTER SIX

      MARK HILLIARD didn’t say a word when Tom joined him, but then they’d known one another for a long time. A look was enough.

      ‘I’m sorry about that. As you may have realised, there’s a bit of … tension.’

      ‘Sackcloth and ashes? If that’s tension, I wouldn’t like to be around when you declare open war.’ Mark’s smile was thoughtful. ‘To be honest, it sounded more like—’

      ‘Like what?’ he demanded, but the man just held up his hands and shook his head. But then, he didn’t have to say what he was thinking. It was written all over his face. ‘It was a business matter,’ he said abruptly. Which was true. ‘Nothing else.’ Which was not.

       Sackcloth and ashes.

      That wasn’t like any business dispute he’d ever been involved in. It was more like an exchange between two people who couldn’t make up their minds whether to throttle one another or tear each other’s clothes off.

      Which pretty much covered it. At least from his viewpoint, except that he hadn’t wanted to feel that way about anyone. Out of control. Out of his mind. Racked with guilt …

      She had clearly wasted no time in putting him out of her mind. But he could scarcely blame her for that. He’d walked away, hadn’t written, hadn’t called, then messed up by asking his secretary to send her a cheque for the full amount of her account. Paid in full. No wonder she’d sent the money back.

      And then, when he’d been ready to fall at her feet, grovel, it had been too late.

      But six months hadn’t changed a thing. Sylvie Smith still got to him in ways that he didn’t begin to understand.

      And he was beginning to suspect, despite the fact that she was expecting a baby with her childhood sweetheart—and he tried not to think about how long that relationship had been in existence, whether it was an affair with her that had wrecked the new Earl’s marriage—it was the same for her.

      The truth of the matter was that, even in sackcloth, she would have the ability to bring him to meltdown. Which was a bit like getting burned and then putting your hand straight back in the fire.

      But as she’d stood there while that crazy female went on about the village church, about walking up the aisle, about someone standing at the altar—about him standing at the altar—he’d seen it all as plainly as if he’d been there. Even the light streaming through a stained glass window and dancing around her hair, staining it with a rainbow of colours.

      He’d seen it and had wanted to be there in a way he’d never wanted that five-act opera of a wedding, unpaid advertising in the gossip magazines for Miss Sylvie Duchamp Smith that Candy had been planning.

      A small country church with the sweet scent of violets that even out here seemed to cling to him instead of some phoney show-piece. A commitment that was real between two people who were marrying for all the right reasons.

      So real, in fact, that he’d come within a heartbeat of reaching out a hand to her.

      Maybe Pam was right. He should go back to London until this was all over. Except he knew it wouldn’t help; at least here he would be forced to witness her making plans for her own wedding. The ‘blooming’ bride. Blooming, glowing …

      Euphemisms.

      The word was pregnant.

      If nothing else did it, that fact alone should force him to get a grip on reality.

      Realising that Mark was looking at him a little oddly, he turned abruptly and began to walk towards the outbuildings.

      ‘Let’s take a look at the coach house and stable block,’ he said briskly.

       Pregnant.

      ‘I think we could probably get a dozen accommodation units out of the buildings grouped around the courtyard,’ Mark said, falling in beside him.

      ‘That sounds promising. What about the barn?’

      ‘There are any number of options open to you there. It’s very adaptable. In fact, I did wonder if you’d like to convert it into your own country retreat. There’s a small private road and, with a walled garden, it would be very private.’

      If it had been anywhere else, he might have been tempted. But Longbourne Court was now a place he just wanted to develop for maximum profit so that he could eradicate it from his memory, along with Sylvie Smith.

      The last thing Sylvie had done before she’d left Longbourne Court was to pack the wedding dress away where it belonged, in a chest in the attic containing the rest of her great-grandmother’s clothes.

      Not wanted in this life.

      It was going to be painful to see it again. To touch it. Feel the connection with that part of her which had been packed away with the dress.

      Always supposing the chests and trunks were still there.

      There was only one way to find out, but Longbourne Court was no longer her home; she couldn’t just take the back stairs that led up to the storage space under the roof and start rootling around without as much as a by-your-leave.

      But as soon as she’d talked to Josie, reassured herself that everything was running smoothly in her real life, she went in search of Pam Baxter, planning to clear it with her. Get it over with while Tom McFarlane was still safely occupied with the architect.

      She’d seen him from the window. Had watched him walking down to the old coach house with Mark Hilliard.

      He’d shaved since their last encounter. Changed. The sweater was still cashmere, but it was black.

      Like his mood.

      And yet he’d had a smile for Geena. The real thing. No wonder the woman had been swept away.

      It had been that kind of smile.

      The dangerous kind that stirred the blood, heated the skin, brought all kinds of deep buried longings bubbling to the surface.

      Not that he’d needed a smile to get that response from her. He’d done it with no more than a look.

      But

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